Wednesday, May 13, 2009

The passage of time reaches a high speed as you get older. (...)You learn that life is not long enough to plant a tree. It will grow, but you will never see it become a great tree. You feel like the White Rabbit in Alice in Wonderland–No time, no time.(...)And at this point I realize what Charles must have felt from his childhood on. No time, no time.

Charles, about 61:

When I was in my early twenties, I was at our farm on the Yorkshire Moors in England. My Mother, my brother Tom, and my cousin Molly and I were looking at a sow with a litter of young pigs: I noticed that each of us was looking at the scene differently. My mother was thinking "What a nasty smell!" My brother Tom was thinking how much the piglets would market for when they were fattened up. My cousin Molly was thinking "How sweet! A mother and her babies."

And I was watching my family tick.

In the picture above, Charles and Elsa as seen in a 1944 domestic vignette. Elsa's dress makes her look slightly Peter Pan-ish. The inlaid wood clock from their Art & Antiques collection she's winding is 350 years old. Elsa looks -as the press release note puts it- quite industrious: for some reason, I can easily picture her building up a set of EEK!EA shelves, Allen key in hand (my guess is that she'd be more efficient at that than Charles would).

And Charles? Well, Charles is watching the clock tick.

In the background you can guess a piano, topped over by a pre-Columbian jar, and a branch in bloom by the window.

The place is the Laughtons much loved house at the Pacific Palisades in which they lived through the 1940s, that of the luxuriant garden on the cliff overlooking the Pacific, eulogized by Bertolt Brecht:

Edit: Andy most kindly posted me the English language version Bert Brecht's full poem (Thanks! ;D). Anyone of you out there have the full German Version?

GARDEN IN PROGRESS

High above the Pacific coast, below itThe waves' gentle thunder and the rumble of oil tankersLies the actor's garden.

Giant eucalyptus trees shade the white houseDust relics of the former mission.Nothing else recalls it, save perhaps the IndianGranite snake's head that lies by the fountainAs if patiently waiting for A number of civilizations to collapse.

And there was a Mexican sculpture of porous tufaSet on a block of wood, portraying a child with malicious eyesWhich stood by the brick wall of the toolshed.

Lovely grey seat of Chinese design, facing The toolshed. As you sit on it talkingYou glance over your shoulder at the lemon hedgeWith no effort.

The different parts repose or are suspendedIn a secret equilibrium, yet neverWithdraw from the entranced gaze, nor does the masterly handOf the ever-present gardener allow complete uniformityTo any of the units: thus among the fuchsiasThere may be a cactus. The seasons tooContinually order the view: first in one place then in anotherThe clumps flower and fade. A lifetimeWas too little to think all this up in. ButAs the garden grew with the planSo does the plan with the garden.

The powerful oak trees on the lordly lawnAre plainly creatures of the imagination. Each yearThe lord of the garden takes a sharp saw andShapes the branches anew.

Untended beyond the hedge, however, the grass runs riotAround the vast tangle of wild roses. Zinnias and bright anemonesHang over the slope. Ferns and scented broomShoot up around the chopped firewood.

In the corner under the fir treesAgainst the wall you come on the fuchsias. Like immigrantsThe lovely bushes stand unmindful of their originAmazing themselves with many a daring redTheir fuller blooms surrounding the small indigenousStrong and delicate undergrowth of dwarf calycanthus.

There was also garden within the gardenUnder a Scotch fir, hence in the shadeTen feet wide and twelve feet long

Which was as big as a parkWith some moss and cyclamensAnd two camelia bushes.

Nor did the lord of the garden take in only His own plants and trees but also The plants and trees of his neighbors; when told thisSmiling he admitted: I steal from all sides.(But the bad things he hidWith his own plants and trees.)

Scattered aroundStood small bushes, one-night thoughtsWherever one went, if one lookedOne found living projects hidden.

Leading up to the house is a cloister-like alley of hibiscusPlanted so close that the walkerHas to bend them back, thus releasingThe full scent of their blooms.

In the cloister-like alley by the house, close to the lamp Is planted the Arizona cactus, height of a man, which each yearBlooms for a single night, this yearTo the thunder of guns from warships exercisingWith white flowers as big as your fist and as delicate As a Chinese actor.

Alas, the lovely garden, placed high above the coast Is built on crumbling rock. LandslidesDrag parts of it into the depths without warning. SeeminglyThere is not much time left in which to complete it.

Laughton, when one checks his work, was quite a whirlwind of activity, but he obviously was wise enough to stop, every then and now, and smell the flowers... and drink a good wine... and look at a beautiful picture... and read a good book... and take care for the garden... ;)

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About Me

Dwelling in an arriki-town beside Barcelona.
Obviously interested in Charles Laughton! Yet it is true that there are more things in life: tiger-nut milk, Hideko Takamine or downhill races on ball-bearing wheel carts, just to name three items...